


Dum Vita Est Spes Est

by leupagus



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 22:40:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5351057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus/pseuds/leupagus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The king of Erebor can’t go out <i>camping</i> once a month,” Balin wailed at Thorin. He was a good match for Kíli, who was teething, and so Thorin thrust the infant at him in a vain attempt to shut them both up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dum Vita Est Spes Est

**Author's Note:**

  * For [screamlet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamlet/gifts).



> "Where there's life, there's hope."

***

After the fire of Erebor and the thunder of Azanulbizar, Thorin has come to crave the comfort of solitude. They have made their homes in Ered Luin, safe in new halls under older mountains, and the saying is true that to a dwarf, all the depths of Middle Earth are home. 

But this home is full of people he must lead and guide, full of duty and burden. So Thorin claims the privilege of a Hunter, one of the dozens of younger dwarves who ride out at the dawn of each new moon and return bearing his weight in game. It is a tradition they have taken from the handful of tribes that have welcomed the Longbeards into Ered Luin; there are only two or three others of his clan who have taken up the role, and Balin fought with him every day for the month before his first hunt.

“The king of Erebor can’t go out camping once a month,” he wailed at Thorin. He was a good match for Kíli, who was teething, and so Thorin thrust the infant at Balin in a vain attempt to shut them both up.

“The king of Erebor is dead,” Thorin replied, although it felt like a lie across his tongue. His father lived, he was sure of it. But there was no knowing how or where, and Thorin was not such a fool as to send out others to find what he did not know himself was there.

“Thorin, you are the leader of our people,” Balin said as he tried to yank his beard out of Kili’s clutches. (There was a reason Thorin had recently shaved his beard down to a boy’s stubble.) “It’s hardly a dignified post.”

“It’s a quiet one,” Thorin pointed out.

Balin was about to protest when Kíli abruptly stopped crying, burped, and spat up on Balin’s coat.

Thorin loves his family — loves his people — with a dark and possessive fire; he knows that to ensure their future he would lay down his life. But for a few days, he permits himself the freedom of unpleasant air and too-bright sun and silence.

At least, that is how it customarily goes.

“Oh, hello,” says the creature, catching sight of him as he walks carefully into the clearing. “I don’t suppose you could lend me some assistance?”

Some distant part of him is impressed; caught by one foot and hung upside-down in a tree, he wouldn’t suppose himself to be as polite as this. “What are you doing here?”

It isn’t a very fair question to ask, but instead of shouting at him or trying to give him a kick with the other foot, the creature just laughs. “I’m having an adventure, it would seem.”

Thorin unsheathes his knife, but puts his other hand up to show that he means no harm. “You’ve picked a strange place for it,” he remarks as he grips the ankle and cuts through the rope as close to the knot as possible — the trap is his, and he’d rather not ruin it, no matter how many young adventurers wander into it.

“Well do I know it!” the creature replies from somewhere around his knees. He lowers it down and it rolls to its feet — an agile little thing, evidently. “Thank you.”

Upright and right-side-up, Thorin can more clearly tell it is a hobbit — possibly a hobbit-lass, though he’s never been able to tell halfling fashions. “You are welcome, though I’d advise you not to go adventuring in these woods alone.”

“Oh, I’m not alone,” she says blithely.

Thorin tenses, for it is usually at this point that a raiding party would attack. He should have considered it before; Bombur had nearly fallen to bandits not five years ago. But there are no cries or sounds of running feet, and the little hobbit is still smiling at him, friendly.

“Where are your companions?”

“Right here,” booms a voice behind Thorin, “Although it’s really just me.”

Thorin whirls around to face an old Man, dressed in what any dwarf would consider a dressing gown, leaning on a staff. He looks somehow familiar, but it’s the smile that has Thorin wary.

“Gandalf, I’ve been strung up there for a half-hour at least,” the hobbit scolds, brushing past Thorin to glare up at the old man. “Where on earth have you been.”

“I have been negotiating our transportation, Belladonna Took, and I just may leave you behind if you don’t keep a civil tongue in your head,” snaps Gandalf (where has he heard that name before?). He catches sight of Thorin frowning and smiles, uncomfortable. “Forgive us — it’s been a rather trying day. My name is—“

“Gandalf the Grey,” Thorin says, “And Belladonna Took. I remember now; there was a bard who came to Ered Luin last month and sang us a song about your defeat of a northern ice-drake.”

“It was a lot smaller than the song made it sound out to be,” Belladonna assures him.

“You have the advantage of us, sir,” Gandalf says, friendliness in everything but his eyes.

“I am Thorin, of the Blue Mountains,” he says, giving a slight bow. It has been more than a decade since that title has fit him, and still it fits badly.

“Thorin?” says the old man, all friendliness gone and replaced by sharp interest. “The one they call Oakenshield?”

“Is that the shield?” the hobbit pipes up, padding over to Thorin’s pony and peering at the branch strapped to its saddle. “It looks like a piece of firewood,” she announces dubiously.

“I did not look for Men to know me by name,” Thorin says cautiously.

“Nor do they,” Gandalf replies. “I am a wizard, and apart from anything else, it means that it is my business to know a great deal.”

Thorin can feel his eyebrows lift. “A _wizard_?” He turns to Belladonna. “And are you a wizard, too?”

“I’m a hobbit, which is much better than a wizard,” she answers, skipping back to where Gandalf stands. 

Gandalf glares at her a moment before returning his attention to Thorin. “You are some way from the Lonely Mountain, young Thorin,” he says.

“I am,” Thorin says, “And if I’d had my way, we would be farther. But we have a home now in Ered Luin. We have had enough of wandering.”

“That’s a pity,” Belladonna says, “For I was just about to ask if you’d like to join us on our adventures.”

He stares at her. “Excuse me?”

She shrugs. “You’ve got the shield for it. And just think! A wizard, a hobbit and a dwarf. What stories they would tell of it!”

“I am not much for stories,” Thorin says. “I have already lived through enough of them.”

Instead of looking abashed, she considers him thoughtfully. “No,” she says after a long while, “No, I don’t believe you have.”

“Have you settled so permanently in the Blue Mountains?” Gandalf asks.

It is such a strange question to be asked by such a strange pair in such a strange place that Thorin gives an honest answer: “I think of Erebor daily, but I would not leave my people for all the gold in the deep. Not now.”

“No, certainly,” Gandalf says quickly. “Not now. I quite understand.”

Thorin frowns; it is possible the wizard did not, in fact, understand him. But he’s prevented from inquiring further by a rushing noise, as though a hundred eagles wheel overhead.

It is, in fact, just one eagle. Thorin’s pony takes one look and bolts into the forest, taking Thorin’s bow, arrows, sword and shield with it. His cursing is masked by the sound of the great eagle landing in the clearing. It blinks at them all, then turns to Gandalf, expectant.

“Ah, our ride is here,” he says, shoving Belladonna (who looks only mildly alarmed) toward the bird. “Well, I’ll be sure to look in on you again, young Thorin. So good to make your acquaintance. Good luck retrieving your horse!” And with a great flap of wings, they’re gone. 

Thorin finds his pony three days later, stuck to a patch of brambles and glumly chewing on his shield.

*

Thorin is aware that playing favourites with his nephews is wrong. They are both round-faced, wide-eyed children, more inclined to smiles than tantrums. He has cradled them both from birth, changed and bathed them and soothed their hurts alongside his sister.

But at present, only one of them has gained enough power of speech to ask, “Are we nearly there yet?” over a hundred times that morning.

“Can I chuck him off the cliff?” Dwalin grunts. He shifts his pack with a rattle and thump as they navigate across another ford.

“No,” Dís calls from the front of the train.

“That woman’s got the ears of a bat,” Dwalin mutters.

“She’s got the temper of one, too, so you’d best mind yourself,” Thorin says, and reaches behind him to pull Fíli away from the ledge where he’sdecided to stop and take a gawk at the view.

The children born after the loss of the mountain have a peculiar love of sights such as these, though Thorin finds them harsh and cold when compared to the darker glories of Erebor. Fili in particular seems drawn to the heights, and so any time they leave Ered Luin it is the job of someone in the company to keep an eye on him. For this journey, Thorin has been elected that honor.

“We still have forty leagues to go today!” Dís shouts back at him; he looks up to see her cupping her hands around her mouth. Kíli, strapped to her back, has his fingers stuck in his ears, looking stoic. “Get a move on!”

It is dangerous for Fíli to be so near the back of the train, at any rate, so Thorin lifts him bodily and carries him over one shoulder, Fíli laughing as Thorin jogs along the path toward his sister. He catches up on the next switchback; they are finally descending again, Bree a faint glint in the distance.

The customs of the Men and hobbits of Eriador are strange to the refugees of Erebor, but no one can deny that they are good for trading; and with the spring thaw comes the Great Fair. The winter months have been particularly good for Ered Luin, whose produce knows no seasons, and they expect to do good business here. The old tribes had carried only gemstones and copper and silver to the fair; their skills were in the delving. But Durin’s Folk prize crafting above all arts, and so Ered Luin has already become famous for its fine jewellery and clever devices, its jewel-encrusted daggers (though armour and swords sell less well, here amongst farmers). Dís has high hopes for the circlets she has had made for young brides.

“Have you remembered the rabbit furs?” she is asking Balin as Thorin comes within hearing distance.

“Aye,” Balin says, though he is flipping through his thrice-cursed inventory list and frowning. “Wait — no. Wait — aye. They’re in the same cart as the boar hides.”

“The scraped or unscraped?”

More flipping. It is a wonder Balin’s papers haven’t disintegrated into dust; he drew up the list almost a week ago and the pages have already grown soft and dull with use. “Unscraped, milady.”

Dís makes a considering noise as Kíli chews on her hair. “Best check them tonight at camp, in case the boar hides have rubbed them.”

“Mother!” Fíli squeals, still slung over Thorin’s shoulder. “Help me, I’ve been kidnapped by an ogre!”

Dís turns and sees; her face creases in laughter. “Oh no, an ogre! But there is nothing I can do, little one; once an ogre claims its prize, it is a legally binding agreement. I’m afraid you belong to the ogre now.”

Fíli stops flailing and slumps against Thorin’s back. “Is that true?” he says, despairing.

Thorin swings him down and deposits him on the path, ruffling his hair. “Aye, you belong to me now, so you’d best be on your best behavior.”

“Oh, yes,” Dís agrees, “You wouldn’t want to act too much like your captor, would you?”

The rest of the journey is pleasant, though they are more alert to dangers as they come down from the mountain ranges and pass into the farmlands of Men. The old tribes have a handful of stories of brigands or griffons attacking, and though Thorin has never had to fight (and itches for the chance) he makes sure to keep the guard on alert.

They arrive at the fairgrounds two days early and are able to set up in comfort, trading pleasantries with the surrounding merchants. Dís, their economist and best salesman, assigns everyone their duties and by the time the fair has officially opened she has already sold wares at good profit. Thorin is barred from trying his hand at commerce ever since he challenged a Man to a knife-throwing fight after the fool impugned the balance of Ered Luin’s daggers. So he is left to wander the stalls and keep out of trouble — usually by keeping an eye on Fíli.

Which is not always easy to do.

“Have you seen a young dwarf? Fair-haired, with raspberry stains on his chin?” he asks another helpful-looking soul. Thorin has not precisely _lost_ Fíli; nor is he worried that someone may have captured him, since dwarven parents are careful to dress their children up in weighted leathers that make them impossible for folk to simply carry off — it would be easier to abscond with a block of granite. However, it has been almost an hour since Fíli scampered off and Thorin is aware of how much Dís will sigh in disappointment at him if he returns empty-handed.

The elderly hobbit looks thoughtful. “Seen a good number of young ones over at the storyteller’s tent,” she offered. “Mayhap yours is in there.”

“Thank you,” Thorin offers, and strides off before doubling back. “Which way is the storyteller’s tent?”

Three wrong turns later, Thorin finally shores up at the right place, and wonders how he could have mistaken any other tent for this. It is a bright purple, with rainbow ribbons at every corner dancing in the wind. It is of a height for a hobbit but as Thorin watches, a female Man ducks in with three of her little ones. He can hear music and a woman’s voice inside, and pulls open the curtain.

He finds Fíli soon enough, sitting cross-legged toward the left edge of the crowd. He makes his way over and sits next to him, pulling him irritably into his lap. “You had better not run off like that again,” he says.

Fíli, who is watching so intently that hardly even noticed being maneuvered, flails blindly at Thorin’s face before covering his mouth with one small hand. “Shhhh,” he whispers, frantically, and Thorin looks up to see what has Fíli so entranced.

It is, of all damnable things, Belladonna Took and her pet wizard; she is playing a small lap harp while telling some kind of story, and Golfing (or perhaps Glorand) is making small fireworks in the shapes of trees or animals or people. Thorin listens for a few moments and realizes that the fireworks are illustrations, and that Belladonna is recounting yet another one of their adventures.

In the ten short years since Thorin last saw them, the hobbit and the wizard have made quite a name for themselves; whenever bards come to Ered Luin, they are sure to have one or two new songs to sing about a mermaid befriended or a troll vanquished. But they do not seem to wear their fame heavily; the wizard still looks like a deranged vagabond with terrible taste in hats, and Belladonna’s curls and bright eyes are just as his memory held them, careful and curious, over the past decade. 

He does not think they have noticed him, in this tent crowded with people of all ages and kinds, and so he is free to listen and watch as he makes a half-hearted attempt to wipe the raspberry sauce off of Fili’s face with a handkerchief. The story is one he recognizes from a recent song, about how Belladonna sang to a pack of wolves such a sweet and gentle tune that the packleader put her head in Belladonna’s lap and they all went to sleep, and Belladonna was able to escape. And indeed, the song seems to tug at the eyelids and nod the head, and as Thorin watches almost all the children in the tent curl up against their parents, breathing deep and peaceful.

“And now,” Belladonna says softly, still plucking at the harp, “If you would like to take your little ones now, without any screaming or fuss, I shall be here for the rest of the fair and my bookstand is just across the way. All books are three coppers, or if you would like two books, it’s just five coppers. My assistant will be happy to help with any purchases.”

Her assistant looks nothing of the kind, but the old wizard gets up from his chair and, bending nearly half-over, shuffles out the door. Most of the audience trails out after him, fathers and mothers holding still-sleeping children to their chests. A few linger to speak with Belladonna, who is putting her harp away in an old worn-out bag.

Thorin jostles Fíli to some approximation of wakefulness. “Would you like to speak to the storyteller, then?” he asks as Fíli rubs at his eyes.

That wakes him up; he shoots to his feet and looks around wildly, gasping in delight when he sees Belladonna is still there. At some point in the near future, Thorin is going to have to discuss with Fíli the importance of not appearing quite so eager when talking to pretty young lasses. (Though Thorin remembers Fili’s father well, and perhaps some things are in the blood.) He gets to his feet and follows as Fíli dances at the outskirts of the small crowd surrounding Belladonna.

She catches sight of him as he approaches, and smiles. “Thorin Oakenshield!” she exclaims, wading through the children to offer her hand. It is Hobbit custom, he remembers, to greet friends and acquaintances in such a manner, and so he takes her small hand in his, bowing over it. She beams at him. “It is a long time. And who is this fine young dwarf?” she asks, turning to a Fíli grown suddenly shy.

“I liked your stories,” he offers, as though afraid she will scorn his adoration.

“Was your favorite the story about the drake?” she asks, and when he nods she says, “That shows your discerning taste, young man. And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“This is Fíli, my nephew,” Thorin supplies when it seems Fíli will be unable to speak for the foreseeable future. “My sister’s eldest.”

“Not yours?” Belladonna asks. “He has your charm. Did you ever find your horse, by the way?”

“A few days later, though no worse for wear,” he tells her. It hasn’t escaped his notice that he’s just been gently insulted by the most confusing woman he’s ever met. “I wouldn’t have expected you and your companion to turn to storytelling.”

“It’s all just a ploy to sell my books,” Belladonna confesses. “I seem to have acquired a dreadful habit of writing everything down, though Gandalf—“ _that_ was the name “—claims that at least forty percent of it is lies.”

“So all of those tales were true?” Fíli gasps.

“At least sixty percent of them,” Belladonna assures him. She slings her satchel over her shoulder and bids farewell to the rest of the children, but when Thorin makes to leave with Fíli she pulls him out of the tent and across the dirt path to where another purple tent, this time a booth filled with brightly-colored leather books, is doing brisk business. Gandalf and a harried-looking hobbit catch sight of them and both scowl with such identical expressions that Belladonna laughs, a sound like festive bells ringing in the depths.

Then Gandalf notices Thorin, and his expression turns to one of calculated delight. “Thorin Oakenshield,” he exclaims, leaving the hobbit-lad to the ravenous customers. “We are well-met today. I did not think to see the dwarves of the Blue Mountains here.”

“Did you not?” Thorin asks, politely.

“Bella!” shouts the beleaguered hobbit in the booth, “Am I allowed to sell _The Tale of the Great and Fearsome Vampire Elk: Volume I_ and _Volume II_ separately?”

“Why would anyone _want_ to buy them separately?” Belladonna demands. She takes a few steps toward the booth, then turns and caught Fili’s eye. “Would you like to help me knock some sense in Bungo? And I’ll pay you back for your services with a book.”

Fíli might as well been asked to ride a unicorn. “Oh, miss,” he says, and she takes him by the hand and away.

Gandalf stays put, still gazing thoughtfully down at Thorin. “I see you’ve done well for yourselves, at any rate. The new dwarves of the Blue Mountains already have gained a good reputation amongst their neighbors, and there are some quite irritable neighbors you have. And yet I cannot help but feel you are somewhat… misplaced here.”

“If this is leading up to another question about if I’d like to go off and reconquer Erebor with nothing but you and Miss Took and my bare hands,” Thorin says firmly, “I’ll have to decline the honor.”

“Pity,” Gandalf says. “Belladonna thought rather highly of you.”

Thorin is extremely worried about the implications of _that_ , but fortunately he is saved by the sound of Fíli’s catastrophic meltdown.

He dodges Gandalf and goes to see what the matter might be; Fíli is sobbing while clutching three different books to his chest. “They’re all perfect,” he cries, through snot and tears.

“Oh dear,” Belladonna says, staring at him with a mixture of fear and affection. “This is why I am determined never to have children. I am sorry,” she adds to Thorin, “I had no idea offering him a book would do this.”

“Come, Fíli, this is no way to behave,” Thorin scolds, aware of how feeble it sounds compared to the expression on his nephew’s face. “Miss Took is doing you a kindness.”

“But look,” Fíli says, holding the books out to him. “This one’s one about a bear, and another about some goblins who teach her their terrible songs, and this one has a battle in it. And there are a _million_ others that are _also_ perfect,” he adds, dissolving into tears again.

“How many books have you written?” Thorin asks her. “Surely not a million.”

“Certainly not a million that are perfect,” Belladonna confirms. “I just finished my seventeenth. Although as Bungo here has said, the _Vampire Elk_ is two volumes, so I suppose it counts as eighteen.”

“Two volumes were required to tell that tale?”

“It was _very_ great. And fearsome.”

Thorin sighs, and takes the books out of Fili’s grasp. “Very well, I’ll buy one of each of them. But you,” he said, turning to Fíli, “Can only choose one to take with you today. I’ll bring a crate for the rest tomorrow.”

“And in one stroke, you’re my favorite customer,” Belladonna cheers. “However did I do without you before today, Thorin Oakenshield?”

But Fíli is still distraught. “But which one should I read first?” It sounds as weighty a problem as any Thorin has untangled.

“Here,” says Belladonna, plucking a volume down from the shelves, “This is the story you heard me tell today; you can read it tonight and fix me in your memory, so that every time you read it, you can remember Gandalf’s fireworks and the lovely music. And that way, you can save the other books and make them last as long as you can.”

Fíli clutches the book to his chest. “Will you marry me?” he asks, breathless and awestruck. Thorin shuts his eyes and wonders if wishing hard enough can make him disappear. He hears Belladonna’s wedding-bell laugh and risks a look; she has bent down to look Fíli in the eye.

“Would that I could, young sir,” she says, pressing her hand to his cheek. “But I am but a humble commoner, and you are a prince who will one day be king. You need a wife who can rule wisely alongside you.”

“I’m sure you could rule wisely,” Fíli protests, and Thorin is set to drag him away from this humiliation that he’s sure to be scarred by when he gets older.

“I’d be far too likely to have people’s heads chopped off,” she assures him, and straightens up. She grins at Thorin, who cannot help but smile back. “But it was good to see you, Thorin Oakenshield.”

“And you, Miss Took,” Thorin replies, and is finally able to drag Fíli out of the tent.

Dís has clearly been on the lookout for them, but she does not seem greatly fussed when Fíli runs ahead of Thorin into her arms babbling about the most beautiful woman he has ever seen in his whole life who should be empress of the entire world and who has given him the best present that anyone could ever imagine. Dís listens patiently enough, though her look to Thorin is eloquent. “And who is this little gem, to have stolen my son’s heart so?”

“My future bride,” Fíli replied firmly. He struggles in her grip, and she lets him down.

“Go and read your story, and _stay put_ ,” she commands, before turning back to Thorin. “Well?”

“A halfling I met a few years ago,” Thorin says. “Belladonna.”

“I wonder if she’s heard the song about the hobbit named Belladonna who killed a dragon,” she muses.

“Oh, probably,” says Thorin.

*

He can hear the pack behind him, not more than two leagues off. The rain might put them off the scent, but not for long. Wargs are cleverer than wolves, and this pack is hungry.

It was hunger that lured him this far south, though a different sort — there had been reports of an orc cave in Ered Nimrais, lead by a great pale orc who called himself king. Thorin couldn’t believe the rumors, but he was bound to confirm his doubts, and so he went with two young dwarves recently promoted to the guard, expecting the journey to be long, tedious, and safe.

The two young dwarves are dead — at least Thorin hopes so. Long before they reached Ered Nimrais they picked up a pack of wargs who picked off his companions in short order. He’s escaped thus far only due to his long experience with the beasts. But they are determined to find him, and Thorin knows his death will be long.

He finds a narrow gully with sheer cliffs on each side, a wall at his back and only a small opening to guard. He can hold them off here, or at least make them pay for his flesh, and so he uses the cover of night and thunder to heave rocks into the passage, narrowing it further. If they can only come in one by one, he might have a chance.

Even then, the first attacker nearly kills him; the flash of lightning glances off the rain-slicked coat of a warg not three feet from him as he is rolling the last stone into place, and he leaps back as it lunges for him, rolling backward and catching hold of his axe. He comes up swinging and slashes the beast’s face, sending it howling back through the passage, its tail between its legs. 

He fights off two more in the next few hours, the rest of them snarling outside the passageway, trapping him within. He kills one of them, but he’s been running for three days with no food or rest, and he can feel his strength draining with every swing of his axe. The rain, at least, has stopped, the storm passed as quickly as it had come, but it only serves to make him more aware of every heartbeat, every breath he draws, knowing it could be the last.

Until he begins to hear a different sound, far off but coming quickly closer, the sound of a hundred eagles in flight. He looks up and against the sky he sees only one great shadow blotting out the stars, wheeling in a tight circle overhead. He cannot imagine it is the same eagle he’d seen — almost twenty years ago, now.

And perhaps it isn’t; but when a rope dangles down and a small figure comes sliding down with a delighted scream, he thinks perhaps the entire race of eagles is in cahoots.

“What the blazes are you doing here?” Thorin demands as Belladonna stumbles to her feet.

She drops a pack from her shoulder, and pulls a dagger that she probably uses as sword out of her scabbard. “Having an adventure, of course,” she says, grinning so broadly it looks set to split her face in half.

“Oh, no,” Thorin protests, but he has little time to argue — another warg has been creeping through the gully while they’ve been gadding, and it leaps into the open space with a snarl, its eyes fixed on Belladonna. To her credit, she seems neither cowed nor concerned; instead she brandishes her dagger at it and snarls back. Thorin slices at its side and it cringes away, only to meet up with Belladonna on the other side, stabbing it in the foot. “Take _that_ , you overgrown lapdog!” she shouts, and kicks it in the nose. The monster retreats, tripping over its fallen brethren as it scrabbles to get out, and Belladonna lets out a whoop. “I think I’ll call this one _The Tale of the Wargs and the Dwarven Prince_ , what do you think?”

“I’m a king, not a prince,” Thorin feels compelled to point out, although he wants to slam his face into the nearest rock for doing so.

Belladonna only shrugs, “But a prince is so much more romantic. Besides, when you rescue a prince, it’s heroic. When you rescue a king, people start to wonder what on earth a king might be doing out here in the middle of a rockpile. It confuses the audience.”

“I see,” Thorin says, although he doesn’t.

“Besides,” she says, patting her stomach, “I’ll be taking a leave of absence from my adventuring soon. So I’ll need to make the next book a bestseller.”

Thorin has never been considered the brightest of Durin’s Folk, but he puts two and two readily enough. “You’re with _child_?”

“Twins, by the feel of it,” Belladonna says cheerfully. “Although if you want one, I’d be more than happy to trade. Two’s a bit much.”

Thorin is prevented from answering by another warg making its attack. Thorin is able to kill this one, neatly decapitating it with his broadaxe, and Belladonna kneels down by its lifeless body to touch its fur gingerly.

“Such a waste,” she says. 

It is not a sentiment Thorin would have expected from her. “Does the adventurer have such a tender heart as all that?”

Belladonna makes a face. “Perhaps it’s my oncoming motherhood,” she admits, “But I can’t help thinking that with all the wisdom of the people of Middle Earth, we could find a way to live together a little more peaceably.”

“There’d be far fewer opportunities for adventure,” Thorin points out, keeping an eye on the entrance. “Where is your companion, anyway? Or did you teach your pet eagle the trick with the rope?”

“Don’t let Gwaihir hear you call him a pet!” Belladonna laughs, getting back to her feet. She swings her sword a few times still loosening muscles. “I imagine my companion is plotting a way to lure the wargs away from here somehow. We just have to hold out until he does.”

“That may be a taller order than you think,” Thorin warns her. “I’ve been chased by this pack for three days; I’ve lost my men, my supplies, and every weapon but my axe and shield.”

“Well, so long as you kept the tree branch, I suppose,” Belladonna sniffs, but she kicks at the sack she’d brought down with her. “Fortunately, a hobbit never travels in privation.”

With the cheese, bread, and flagon of beer that Belladonna produces from within, they manage to last two days, although the stink of dead warg quickly becomes oppressive. At dawn of the third day, the sounds of the pack (much reduced in size by this time) go from snarls and howls to yelps and screams, before they’re abruptly cut off. Thorin is about to climb over the warg corpses to see what’s happened when they hear Dangolf’s voice at the entrance. “Is anyone there? I’m reluctant to venture in if you’re already dead.”

“Thank you, Gandalf—“ Thorin is never going to remember that bedamned name “—we’re perfectly fine.”

They climb out to see Gandalf with a whole flock of giant eagles perched on the rocks and sturdy trees surrounding the gully. “Thank you,” Thorin says, addressing them all.

“Hardly necessary to thank _them_ ,” says Gandalf, “They just got a very easy meal.”

“And yet I think I like his manners better than yours,” retorts the largest eagle, and spreads its great wings. In the next instant the entire flock has taken to the air, circling once before heading west.

Belladonna scowls at Gandalf. “You’ve just lost us our ride.”

“I’m sure Shadowfax is somewhere around,” Gandalf says, though he has the grace to look abashed. “And look, Thorin Oakenshield. I’m glad we ran into you.”

“No,” Thorin says preemptively. 

Gandalf pouts all the way back to the Blue Mountains. 

Shadowfax, whatever the devil that is, never does show up.

***

 

**Author's Note:**

> Based off this amazing prompt and yeah of course screamlet made it in all caps:
> 
> "GROSS TOTALLY DOMESTIC PRE-EREBOR FIC WHERE DIS AND THORIN AND FILI AND KILI LIVE TOGETHER AND GROUSE FOR A BILLION WORDS AND MAYBE DWALIN LIVES WITH THEM TOO AND GANDALF PASSES THROUGH THE MOUNTAINS ONCE IN A WHILE AND IS LIKE 'YO, YOU READY FOR ADVENTURE YET?' AND THORIN IS LIKE 'KILI JUST OUTGREW ANOTHER PAIR OF PANTS AND FILI PROPOSED TO THREE PEOPLE THIS WEEK EVEN THOUGH HE HAS NO MONEY AND I'M PRETTY SURE NEITHER OF THEM KNOW THEIR EIGHT TIMES TABLES AND I HAVEN'T HAD MY HAIR DONE IN LIKE SIX WEEKS DO I LOOK LIKE I'M READY FOR A FUCKING VACATION FROM REALITY, OLD MAN???' AND GANDALF IS LIKE 'WOW OK NM' AND AN EAGLE SNATCHES HIM UP AND TAKES HIM AWAY AND THORIN IS LIKE 'THAT WASN'T A NO!!!!!!! FUCK!!!!!!! THOSE FUCKING EAGLES ARE SO FUCKING USELESS!!!!!! NEXT TIME I'M PUNCHING ONE IN ITS EAGLE DICK'"
> 
> Which obviously I totally screwed up because of my shameful lady-hobbit ladyboner, but let us all have a moment of sober self-reflection and realize that Thorin's ladyboner for lady-hobbits is way more shameful than mine. Kisses, boo, and obligatory you're welcome/I'm sorry disclaimers here. This isn't meant to be particularly accurate to either the films or the books, but let's face it, I bet Belladonna _was_ a world-famous badass.


End file.
